


Dark Moon Rising

by Morgause1



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ainur - Freeform, Blood, Death, Gore, M/M, Maiar, Mairon makes friends with Thuringwethil, Master/Servant, Melkor sees an Elf for the first time, Notice me senpai, Pre-Slash, Utumno, Vala/maia, Valar - Freeform, Violence, angbang, eldritch abomination ainur, mairon has too many legs send help, mairon rising to power, melkor is suspicious, the creation of the misty mountains, weird fanar, Ósanwe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:07:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21691975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgause1/pseuds/Morgause1
Summary: Mairon, newly arrived in Utumno after the Lamps are destroyed, rises through the ranks of his new master's hosts.
Relationships: Angbang - Relationship, Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon
Comments: 37
Kudos: 92





	1. Chapter 1

“…and this is the forge. You’re to be stationed here.”

The Maia Mairon stopped. His gold-and-diamonds eyes, still retaining the last spark of the Lamps as they shattered in his new master’s hands, narrowed in confusion.

“But… this is just bare earth. Where are the tools? The equipment? How can you make anything like… that?” he gestured at the magma pooling and dripping among the dark rocks of the cave. Several Maiar Sang something from the fumes rising from a crack in the floor. His sensors told him that whatever it was, it was explosive. If it blows, the strange beasts that were banging on rocks nearby would be damaged or even destroyed. Mairon stepped into the magma pool, unheeding the heat. He wore a type of fána that was popular among the Maiar who served Aulë in those days before the Children came: short, stocky body, made of magically reinforced stone and metal. His many limbs differed in size and shape according to the purpose they served, from hammer fists to delicate, pincers-like fingers. Internal wheels whirred gently as he bent to take a closer look at what a smaller Maia was doing and wrinkled his nose in disgust. 

It was nothing like Aulë’s neat halls with their lines of furnaces, stacks of shiny tools, storage rooms, and transportation carts. The industrious hum was replaced by a clamor of crude voices. It was inefficient, amateuristic, _wasteful_ …

This was not at all what he expected. The Vala told him…

“That’s just how it is,” his guide shrugged. “The Master cares not how we do things, as long as we deliver the goods.”

“So be it. To whom do I report?”

“No one.” The guide sensed Mairon’s surprise. “Well, the Master, of course, if he comes down here. But whatever you do, do _not_ make him come down here.”

“That makes no sense. How am I supposed to know what is required of me? What am I to make?”

The guide stopped, and Mairon felt his smile more than seen it in the dim flickering light of the molten rock.

“Whatever your heart desires.” 

The guide was called back up, leaving Mairon alone to settle down and take in his new surroundings. The place was a dump, true, but perhaps it wasn’t as bad as first glance made it be. It seems that the Lord gave him a free hand to do whatever he wanted, as long as it promoted his cause. And oh, did Mairon _want_. Melkor didn’t lie, then – an unexpected pang of guilt fled through Mairon’s mind for thinking so – he did give him what he promised. Free of the fetters of fake morals and duplicitous etiquette and powered by the greatest Power in Eä, Mairon could finally do what he was created to do. He could make a difference! He started Singing an explorative tune. As his Song gradually filled the cave, a plan began to form in his mind.

Changes take time, even in the ever-changing, chaotic palace of He Who Arises In Might. Inferior beings could be harnessed to carry out commands, if one had a strong enough will. Work could be done, spaces shaped logically, and order introduced. Slowly but surely, production can rise and so can quality. It takes patience, a clever mind tutored by the Craftsman, and an iron fist. Mairon discovered that he had all of these qualities and more. And so the rocks saw him rise through the ranks. They saw him become the focal point of the smithy, a mentor, a guide, a leader. They saw him squash whatever petty mutinies the forge subjects tried to pull before they knew better, and his fierce pleasure when he forced them to surrender. And the stone Sang its slow Songs to him, weaving around his fingers when he called upon it, lending its orange light to his hair that now streamed like a river down his back.

The Master never bothered to descend into the forge. There was no need.

Mairon should have been relieved – he learned quickly in Almaren that the presence of the Valar was not something he sought after. But now… now was different. The memory of whispers still followed him down the torch-lit corridors and halls of the remade forge, deepening the shadows. They became louder whenever he stilled and flared behind his eyes when he listened.

Melkor’s whispers had power, dark and soft and irresistible. Like blood-stained, scratching talons, they clung to his mind long after their purpose was fulfilled, after he was won over, after he came to Melkor and offered up his throat. The whispers continued to demand more, and the pain they brought was addictive.

Mairon was not obsessed with Melkor, no! He would have laughed at the very notion, were he asked. It was just that for many years now, all that Mairon had was his work and the brief, quite unsettling visits from the Dark Vala. Nothing else existed in the pale void that life in Eä turned out to be and in the chasm that separated him from the rest of his kin –

(a chasm that only came into being _after_ he started talking to Melkor, not _before_ , but – no! No! That was a filthy lie!)

– so Mairon came to wish for some of Melkor’s attention. But in truth, the obsession was already there: it was still just a spark in his soul, slowly stoked into the desperate hellfire of love and devotion it became in later ages. Now he simply yearned for contact.

The order he established in the smithy grounded Mairon’s spirit and let him free some of his time to do things that interested him personally. He didn’t make any trinkets ever since he left Almaren. Now he shut himself in his private workshop. It was time to step up his game.

“To his Majesty, the King of Arda, the Black Sun, my Lord and Master: by your pleasure, allow me to present this small gift as a token of my gratitude and eternal loyalty.” Langon delivered the message, his voice echoing from the high ceiling of the throne room, where he was perched. A kneeling servant displayed said gift: a confection of delicately spun gold and platinum, set with various gems that reflected the Vala’s frosty glow. Their tiny lights ricocheted off the walls as the Vala’s soul turned fiery, coloring the hall ice and blood.

Melkor materialized on his throne with a gasp of delight. He extended an appendage towards the ornament and slipped it on. It was amorphous enough to fit any form, he noticed, and compliment it perfectly.

“Who?”

The answer was as he expected. “A forge Maia, my Lord. Calls himself Mairon.”

“Bring him to me.”

Melkor inspected the Maia as he strode to the throne and knelt before it. He changed somewhat in the years since he first came to Utumno: His fána became sleeker and more fluid in shape with the influence of his ever-changing master, and was made of pure gold. Instead of Aulë’s sigil, a black sun was now engraved onto his torso. He bore himself with confidence, as before, but now he also seemed to acquire a touch of authority that he did not display in Almaren. He lifted burning, citrine eyes to the Vala.

Melkor himself was flickering back and forth on the verge of embodiment. He was a tempest, and the jewels that Mairon forged for him glittered among the lightning-purple clouds.

Awed, Mairon broke the silence first.

“Master, I must apologize from the very depths of my soul. This paltry thing I made can never do justice to your sublime beauty.”

“Sycophant.” in that subterranean hall, the word boomed like a mountain tearing off its roots. Mairon fell silent, embarrassed. It was the truth, but clearly not the right thing to say. Now the greatest of the Valar was observing him intently from the throne, waiting for some response Mairon couldn’t quite gauge. Summoning all his courage, he tried again.

“My Lord, shall I perhaps report to you of my doings in the forge? I have made some rather interesting progress with – “

“I am aware.”

This was bad. Mairon knew that Melkor was not at all like Aulë, but he never had a chance to feel how vast the difference was until now: he was far gentler with him in Almaren. He felt the Vala’s regard getting heavier on his soul and body, and it was full of mistrust. It was beginning to hurt. A lot. His fána grew hotter and tiny flames licked at his sides, melting the gold. He tried to focus, to stop the panic that rose in his throat. What was happening? If he’d just let him know what he wanted, why he summoned him here…

“Are you happy, Maia?”

The question took him by surprise.

“Very much, Master.”

Black smoke tendrils crept towards him, wrapping around him and penetrating his ears, his mouth, his eyes. They went for his ëala. He kept still, allowing the breach. After a long while, the Master finally seemed satisfied.

“Rise,” he said, and then clicked towards a servant that was hiding in the shadows. “You. Escort the Forge Master back down.”

Safely back in his quarters, Mairon felt happiness explode inside him. He did it. He really did it! He was finally acknowledged as he deserved to be. His Vala – greatest, grandest being! – looked upon him and truly saw him, and rewarded him for his hard work. And as for their uncomfortable conversation in the throne room…

That was a close call. He’ll have to learn how to properly speak to Melkor, if only he ever get another chance to.

Mairon hoped such a chance would arrive soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HC that fánar are influenced by "trends" or "states" of the world. So before the Children awoke, the Ainur wore fánar made of metal, wood, water, stars, etc. When the Elves awoke, it caused a deep change in the world which, in turn, caused the Ainur to change too - even the less-enthusiastic dark side. That's just where the world was headed, and they flow with it. Perhaps after there are no more Eruhini, the Ainur would change again. But what to?


	2. Chapter 2

“ _He calls._ ”

Mairon didn’t need to ask who. The excitement in the tiny spirit’s mind was evidence enough.

“Did he say why?”

The thing did not answer. Instead it repeated the summons. Not intelligent enough, then. Mairon gave a few brief orders, polished his fána with a Note and departed, the messenger spirit lighting his path like a little candle. Mairon expected it to bring him to the throne room again, but instead it led him up and up to a part of the castle he’d never been to. Then it was gone, leaving him underneath a heavy, dark trap door. The door hummed as some power on its other side rattled it. Mairon could recognize its distinct signature everywhere. He leaned against the doors and opened them, hauling himself up.

He was at the top of a high turret, open on all sides and overlooking the frozen wastes of the North. His Lord hulked at the center, unheeding the howling of the wind and the snow that twirled around him. He wore flesh that was as pale as the snow and his hair was the color of the polar ever-night ere the Sun rose. Mairon bowed deeply.

Melkor didn’t acknowledge his presence. Mairon rose after a while, noticing for the first time that others stood there: some of them were Valaraukar, loyal to the Master from the start. Others, like Mairon, bore signs of belonging to other owners before they’d seen the light. All of them were high-ranking Maiar, cunning, puissant creatures. Mairon eyed them with suspicion before turning his attention back to Melkor.

Langon, the herald, spoke.

“We have been summoned here to deal with a grave issue: as you all know, Oromë, thrice accursed lackey of the Usurper, had of late taken to invading our Lord’s Kingdom, destroying our works and hunting down our people like game. How are we to stop this from happening? How are we to retaliate and squash Oromë as he deserves?”

Langon spread his wings dramatically. He wore an eagle-shaped fána, jet-black and sparkling with frost. Was he trying to emulate Eonwë, Manwë’s herald? Mairon scoffed. Langon was not half as powerful as Eonwë. None of the Maiar convened on this roof were, really. Mairon himself never pitted his strength against the Chief of the Maiar, although he occasionally thought about it. He suspected that the results might prove interesting.

One of the Valaraukar spoke, then, his voice a roar of flames in the snow. Another creature intervened with a screech, negating his words. Several others joined the argument. Very soon it seemed more like a brawl than any civilized debate Mairon had ever seen, and it was escalating quickly. Some of the Maiar were actually using violence now. He would have been shocked when he first arrived here from Almaren, but now he was used to it. It wouldn’t have happened in his Forge, though. He’d never allow his subjects to disrespect the Vala so.

Melkor just stood in the midst of it all. A silent tower, watchful yet aloof.

“Does he always hold… meetings… like this?” Mairon asked one of the smaller spirits in attendance. He didn’t notice her when he first entered, but now he saw that she bore the signs of once serving Oromë, a winged hunter who became infatuated with her prey. Utumno seemed to contain quite a few of those. Maybe that was the reason she was present, as she wasn’t quite as big as the others. Like him, she did not join the fight.

“Occasionally.” She shrugged. “He sometimes likes to hear what we have to say, before just doing whatever he intended to do in the first place.”

“Forge Master,” Melkor suddenly spoke, and Mairon suppressed a shiver. The quarreling Maiar shut up immediately.

“My Lord?”

“Your ideas on the matter?”

With a little tinge of both trepidation and satisfaction, Mairon straightened up even more. “A physical barrier, Your Augustness. Something huge, the likeness of which was never seen before, reinforced by our Arts. The scoundrel would be stopped and forced to go back, as he would never be able to leap across it or bypass it. For even the Rider of the Valar could not vault up into the Void in which Arda is suspended, nor could he burrow into its very Foundations which are suffused with your power, my Lord. Not even if he returns with backup.”

Melkor remained expressionless. Mairon backed away gracefully, but his heart soured inside him. Again! He said the wrong thing yet again!

Silence descended, broken only by the howling of the wind. None of the Maiar dared make a sound.

“Accepted,” Melkor suddenly spoke, startling his servants. “A physical barrier it is. Build it, Forge Master. Report to me in a week. You are all dismissed.”

“No, my Lord.”

The words left him before he could think. The Maiar’s collective gasp barely registered through the rush of horror that flooded him. Disobedience was not something the Lord Vala was willing to tolerate. What has he done?

“What.”

“I cannot build it, Master.”

Mairon didn’t even see the Vala move, but suddenly there he was, looming over him. This up close, he was even more terrifying than usually. A hand, each of its dozen talons the length of Mairon’s arm, lifted his face to stare into searing, completely black eyes.

“Perhaps another Maia would be able to take your place, _Forge Master_?”

He started it and he must finish it. If he shuts up now, he’s dead.

“The foundations of a barrier of such proportions are not something a Maia, however skillful, might raise. Even Aulë could not manage it. You are the only one in Eä who’s strong enough to do it, Master. If it is to be created, it must be done by your hand. We Maiar will build the upper structures upon your roots and fortify them appropriately. If it pleases you, I will personally see to it that it’s done properly.”

One of the talons punctured him, drawing forth golden blood and making Mairon regret he chose to wear mostly flesh this time.

“Resume breathing, you’ve gone all blue.” Melkor said, releasing his face and turning away at last. “Very well, we will build it together. We will start tomorrow by the third Bell. Prepare whatever it is you need by then.”

Melkor disappeared. At once it seemed like the storm abated, despite the wind and snow that still beat around. Mairon stood motionless, allowing the tension to leave his fána. He noticed that he was trembling and forced himself to stop. The other Maiar were leaving the rooftop, too. He could feel their emotions skipping off of him, and they were not friendly: anger, envy, fear, incredulity. He was a newcomer and he moved up way too quickly to take their places. Mairon was not impressed. He didn’t give a damn about what any of them thought.

“That was very brave, what you did.”

Mairon turned to find the winged Maia by his side. There was an amused glint in her insectile eyes. 

“Thank you.”

“It’s amazing that you managed to actually convince Lord Melkor. You changed his mind. How did you do that?”

The shock he was in wore off entirely and Mairon began to feel very pleased with himself. “I have experience in these matters, and the Lord knows it. My advice was sound and he saw it.”

“I don’t doubt it, but the Master doesn’t listen to advice, however good. He must be seeing something special about you…” she shrugged. “By the way, my name is – “ and she Sang a few Notes, briefly outlining her purpose in the Music of the World. Mairon Sang back his name.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Mairon asked. “Surely you have some opinion on what to do with your former master?”

“I’m not into politics.”

“What are you into, then?”

“The hot blood of Master’s enemies,” she answered with a sneer. “Fare well, Mairon the Smith. Talk to me if you need anything.” And then she jumped off the edge, soaring on webbed wings with a piercing cry.

“I will,” Mairon said to himself. He was beginning to like her. Smiling like a knife, he embarked on a journey back down to the Forge. Time was short and he had much work to do.

*

To see Lord Melkor perform one of his Great Works was a rare and intoxicating pleasure. Mairon still remembered his excitement when he saw the very underpinnings of Arda coming undone in Melkor’s hands as he pulled upon them in anger, and when the Lamps shattered into glorious darkness. He felt the same deep thrill now as he watched his god, arms raised and body emitting blinding black light, Sing gargantuan walls of rock from the earth, melt them and fashion them into the greatest mountain range ever seen on this side of the Sea. And then he himself was Singing a Song of violence and malice as he and his army of spirits swarmed the still-bleeding earth. He cursed and enchanted as he hammered the earth into shape, stabilizing it just the way Melkor wanted it.

When finally the work was finished, Mairon sought out his Master. He found him on a ledge, surveying his handiwork. Exhausted and exhilarated, Mairon approached to a more-or-less safe distance and waited to be noticed. That came about quickly enough.

“Forge Master. What do you report?”

“Everything came out just as planned, my Lord. The earth settles now, and I’ve planted a few Notes to let it cool much faster than it usually would, without breaking. Time is of an essence.”

Melkor hummed approvingly, eyes still fixed upon the West.

Mairon spoke again, trying his luck. “If you will it, Master, when the earth cools, I’d like to see to it that fell beasts and spirits come to dwell in these mountains, a garrison against our foes and their ever-encroaching Light.”

Melkor’s all-seeing gaze turned on him suddenly, measuring him up. Mairon stiffed. But when he spoke, Melkor’s voice was almost soft.

“You _are_ very useful, aren’t you?”

Mairon bowed. “I try with everything I have, Master.”

“You’ve done a good job, Mairon. Go back to Utumno.”

Mairon’s heart missed a beat. He called him by his name. And when he flew back to the fortress of darkness in the North of the world, Mairon couldn’t help but think how sweet his name sounded on Melkor’s tongue.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this is where The Murders begin. Blood and gore, Elf death, daddy issues - all that shite. Beware.

Whispers. Whispers followed him everywhere.

They wafted about in the Forge, mixing with the smoke that escaped through the great chimneys to fill the Northern sky with promise. They crawled across the corridors and up the stairs in his wake, molding themselves to the walls only to balk at the fire of the torches that hissed angrily at them. They danced in the snow outside, moaning, complaining, impotent in their rage. They boasted and threatened, meekly disappearing into the shadows the moment he opened the great doors of the throne hall and took his place at the Secretary’s desk.

They were always behind his back, never to his face. Well, not _never_. But that one time was enough to teach them better.

While Melkor’s High Court was generally shocked with Mairon’s rapid succession of promotions, currently placing him in the role of the Vala’s Secretary and quite close to his ear, the Lord himself was delighted. Satisfying him was hard, almost impossible work, and Melkor enjoyed watching Mairon positively _sweat_.

Out of the Forge and into his new position in the throne hall itself, Mairon clad himself in smooth flesh and fine silks adorned with gold and jewels, all gifts bestowed on him by his well-pleased master. Copying Melkor, the body Mairon now wore was erect and bipedal, with two arms and a head shaped in the manner of the Children the Ainur had but glimpsed during their Father’s Music. Some of the others in the High Court wore similar shapes, although not as well-crafted as Melkor’s and Mairon’s. Mairon looked at his hands as he placed them on the desk: he hoped he got the number of fingers right. He didn’t know why Melkor started wearing this type of fána of late, but it felt… right. The world was changing. Perhaps the Children were soon to come.

He had more pressing thoughts now. He lately took to recording things like stocks, work assignment, and other administrative matters that the Lord had zero interest in. For this he devised a set of wedge-shaped marks that could be drawn on preserved skins of dead animals. He kept the skins bound together with a black cord on his desk. He had earlier begun documenting the progress of Melkor’s latest pet project: he was breeding a species of little, scaly reptiles that favored the geysers about Utumno. The experimentation has been going well, the current generation of animals being several times larger than their predecessors and showing some basic intelligence. Mairon’s documentation seemed to truly assist Melkor’s efforts. The memory of the praise it earned him made Mairon’s skin glow bright for a moment, before fading again into the shadows. He had to hurry now. Everything had to be in perfect order by the time the Lord arrived. 

They were well into several hours of Court issues when the messenger arrived.

It took the shape of a black mare. Its long mane was wet and stringy. Its white eyes and the froth at its mouth glowed without illuminating anything, reminiscent of the marsh-candles that lured animals to their doom. Something was tied to its back. It knelt before Melkor and tossed the bundled form at his feet. It writhed.

"What’s this, then?”

“I found it, Master,” the Maia spoke, using its rows upon rows of pale, needle-like fangs to tear off the kelp that covered the shape. “It went into the water. I’ve never seen anything like that.”

Mairon stood up to get a better look. The thing was alive, though badly battered. Its long, smooth limbs were covered with bruises and red blood, but its skin still emitted a faint sheen that made Mairon remember long-lost things he’d rather forget. Its shape! Shocked, Mairon glanced at Melkor’s lovely new fána. Was it…?

Released from its bindings, the creature screamed and tried to flee. Its captor reared and its leg snapped under the Maia’s iron-shod hoof. More screaming erupted, mixed with something that sounded like _pleading_. Words. Unlike all the other animals to walk Arda, this one spoke with words.

This was phenomenal! There was so much potential here, ready to be harnessed. Giddy with excitement, Mairon turned to Melkor but shut his mouth immediately.

He did not expect the turmoil on the Vala’s face. He saw him angry before and learned to fear that expression, but that wasn’t exactly what he saw now. There was anger there, but also…

Pain. Jealousy. A deep and profound hurt.

Melkor got up from the throne and paced slowly down towards it. He crouched before the sobbing creature and lifted its chin to stare into its eyes.

“So. You are one of Eru Ilúvatar’s favorite little Children, aren’t you?” he ran a finger over one particularly nasty wound, painting it red. He put the finger in his mouth and sucked on it with unexpected relish. “We’ve all waited for so long to meet you – your older siblings, that is, the Spirits of Light that were with Him since the Dawn. But now that I finally see you, I must wonder what is it about you that made Him promise you true dominion over that which Is? You are not particularly powerful, nor wise, nor beautiful as we are. Yes, I can see your threadbare structure, so fragile and pale. How deeply you are tied to this ground, doomed to thread it with leaden feet and dim hearts. You have none of the glory, none of the majesty, none of the good qualities that we possess, that _I_ possess. I, His firstborn. I, who was supposed to rule this Eä by right of my immanent nature as Sovereign. I, His favorite son!” He rose to his feet, lifting the creature by the hair to eye level. It moaned and wept as it dangled high in the air and tried to pull Melkor’s hands away, but to no avail. “So how, I ask you. How did you do it? How did you sway His heart? What lies did you tell Him, what filthy little games did you play? _How dare you take my Father’s love away from me?!_ ”

Melkor’s voice was a strident howl that rose and rose until the very ceiling of the throne hall began to shake. All lights went out. Fear groaned around the room as the Maiar were hit by their Master’s fury. Unable to contain his power, the hall gave in and stones began to fall from the walls, shattering with a deafening blast on the cracking floor. The debris was caught by the Vala’s gravity and surged around him, destroying the furniture, the obsidian-carved throne, the beasts whose blood added smudges of red to the blackness. And in the midst of it all stood the Vala. He was screaming as he tore at his own fána, reducing it to nothing but teeth and claws and black hole eyes.

“I hate you! I hate you! Curse you and all your kind to the Darkness Eternal! You think this world is yours? You will never have it! I will destroy each and every one of you and laugh over your sorry corpses! You see, Father? This is what I’ll do to your darlings!” He threw the Child onto the rocks and lunged at it, tearing at its body. At that moment Mairon felt his own fána rending, breaking to bits. The pain was agonizing. He tried to leave it but found that he couldn’t – his Lord was holding his soul in place. A quick glance around showed him that all the Maiar who wore such fánar suffered the same fate. Melkor lifted his head with a growl, jowls dripping blood and gore as he tore the creature’s heart out. Through bloodshot eyes, Mairon saw the glow of the creature’s skin drain from it, leaving the now gray, limp body in a little golden nebula and wafting upwards.

A sudden hush fell on the hall, and in the silence the little soul was heard singing. A deeper voice answered it then, calling, inviting. It was full of wonder and cool comfort. The soul turned to it, accepting the call. It began to flow West.

Melkor would have none of it.

“Get it!”

There was a flurry in the hall as each creature large and small made a grab for the fleeing spirit. Magic exploded all around and various bodies leapt in vain as they tried to tackle it to the ground. With all his remaining strength, Mairon morphed his arm and shooting it up to swing at the fëa he managed to get a hold –

The fëa was there, locked inside the golden cage his hand became. Melkor turned toward him, palm upturned, but then that accursed voice was heard again and the cage burst.

The fëa was gone. Darkness filled the half destroyed throne hall.

Mairon couldn’t tell how long they stood there in the silent darkness until Melkor finally stirred. He settled back on the ruins of his throne and took a moment to reassemble his features and stop the major bleedings. When he spoke, his voice was again the barely restrained thunder Mairon was familiar with.

“Were there others?”

The mare-Maia crawled forward and found its place again. “Yes, my Lord, but I’m afraid they managed to escape.”

“Of course they did.” A confession like that would usually result in immediate punishment, but Melkor seemed spent for now. Instead he sunk into thought, his face set in a grim expression. At last he spoke.

“Very well. If it’s war He wants, war He will get. Perhaps the results would not be quite what He’d expect. Mairon!”

“Yes, Master?”

“It seems that you’re the only one in my household I can trust to be at least minimally capable of doing anything, so congratulations. You are now my second in command. Do not disappoint me.”

“I will not, Your Majesty,” dizzy with exertion and blood loss, Mairon could barely process his words but could recognize their importance. “I’ll find a way to bind them,” he added, perhaps unwisely. Engaging Melkor at such times and drawing further attention to oneself was not a good idea. But again, Melkor only nodded.

“See that you do, Lieutenant.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Melkor hates the Children of Ilúvatar and wrecks his fána upon seeing one the first time, but still continues to wear similar shapes in all ages to come. Why is that? I assume that some things are just too innate, the stage is stronger than the actors. Melkor is but a device set in a world that was created for the benefit of the Children, and try as he might, he must play by the rules of the world he abides in.
> 
> Tell me if something's wrong with the story/language/whateves. I accept concrete concrit.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Ascent](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23181088) by [Lairenuriel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lairenuriel/pseuds/Lairenuriel)




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